


you can be my wonder in my time of woe

by befehlvonganzunten (blueprintofyourpast)



Series: bridges [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Introspection, Michelle Jones is Soft, Peter Parker is soft, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), The Author is Soft, everyone is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 06:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueprintofyourpast/pseuds/befehlvonganzunten
Summary: For some reason, he feels a little ridiculous in his suit, and he grits out a wet laugh when she tells him that she brought the mace in case he needed some help, and her crooked smile reminds him of spring, a time when she stopped stealing from his plate during lunch and started throwing high-calorie nutrition bars at him in-between classes.(He would catch them mid-air with helpless confusion painting wrinkles on his face, and he would wolf them down under her scrutinising gaze.)They never talked about it, that Saturday afternoon she’d bought him a blueberry scone, and how keeping him fed slowly became a self-imposed duty of hers. They never talked about anything, really. They never had to. There was an understanding between them – silent but unmistakable – and it looks like it never went missing because one minute her hands unfold to reveal the cracked remains of the necklace, prompting him to stutter out apologies, and the next he’s cut off by her lips and –Oh.Oh....Or: Peter Parker needs a break. Peter Parker gets a break.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Michelle Jones
Series: bridges [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462300
Comments: 21
Kudos: 149





	you can be my wonder in my time of woe

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a direct quote from _duet_ by everything everything... i wrote most of this one-shot yesterday when i was in a particularly sappy mood, so be warned: this is STUPID.

For a second, he’s convinced that his mind is playing tricks on him, but then she has her arms around him and she’s solid, she’s real. She tells him that their friends and classmates are okay, and he exhales a shuddering breath as his gaze cuts to the mace that’s lying a couple of feet away from them in the rubble.

The bridge is a scene of destruction, cluttered with debris and burning cars. It’s nothing new for him. The ferry, Coney Island, Titan, the compound – he knows what chaos looks like, he’s seen it in all shapes and forms. Hell, he’s seen it so many times by now that the sight, smell, and sound of it don’t even phase him anymore. 

(But the sight of her in the midst of it? It used to plague and pester him in his nightmares. He never thought it would come true one day, let alone that it would slay him with relief instead of fear, so he pulls her closer and buries his nose in her neck, feeling himself relax a bit once he’s hit by that familiar blend of lime and peppermint. It’s his favourite scent in the world.)

And he isn’t just relieved. He isn’t just relieved that she didn’t get hurt.

He’s proud of her, too.

There’s no doubt she would’ve fought tooth and nail to protect herself and their friends, no doubt that she would’ve wielded that mace like a badass. And she probably did wield it at some point because she is a badass. It’s one of the many things about her that shook him up from the start. One of the many things about her that left him reeling with a type of affection he couldn’t put his finger on then.

Her palms are warm against his back and her chest expands with every breath she takes. He can feel her heart as it roars and rattles in her ribcage. He doesn’t realise that his eyes are closed until she tells him about the drone that was about to kill her and how it stopped all of a sudden.

“Was that you?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is frail, laced with fatigue and half-muffled by her shirt, and he wants to stay here with her. He wants to hold her a little longer. He doesn’t know when or if he’ll get to hold her like this again, but the need to take her in and make sure that she’s really okay wins out eventually.

(What he sees drums the ache out of his bones: bits of sunlight are tangled in her hair and there’s a glow about her that makes him want to reach out and reconquer the space between them. Or just… stare at her for the rest of his life.)

His post-battle delirium lures him into thinking that she’s never looked more beautiful, and it’s not like she’d care if he said it out loud, but maybe he should? Maybe he should tell her before the shock wears off and everything goes back to normal? He furrows his brows, half-assed compliments that’ll never do her justice swirling around in his mouth when she beats him to the punch.

“Did you get him?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t feel like he can. He’s too busy thinking about Beck and how his obsession with Tony (who hadn’t been an innocent but still died a hero) turned him into a green-eyed madman. He’s too busy being a bit ashamed of himself and the fact that a part of him feels sorry for a man who took advantage of his need for guidance and tried to kill him at least twice in the past few days.

He doesn’t know what his sympathy for Beck says about him as a person and if it’s misguided or a sign of weakness, but maybe he doesn’t have to find out right now. After all, he’s on a bridge with the girl he really likes and everything around them is on fire. 

He sniffles, fumbles with his mask, and blinks to mitigate the sting in his eyes. For some reason, he feels a little ridiculous in his suit, and he grits out a wet laugh when she tells him that she brought the mace in case he needed some help, and her crooked smile reminds him of spring, a time when she stopped stealing from his plate during lunch and started throwing high-calorie nutrition bars at him in-between classes. 

(He would catch them mid-air with helpless confusion painting wrinkles on his face, and he would wolf them down under her scrutinising gaze.)

They never talked about it, that Saturday afternoon she’d bought him a blueberry scone, and how keeping him fed slowly became a self-imposed duty of hers. They never talked about anything, really. They never had to. There was an understanding between them – silent but unmistakable – and it looks like it never went missing because one minute her hands unfold to reveal the cracked remains of the necklace, prompting him to stutter out apologies, and the next he’s cut off by her lips and – 

Oh.

_Oh._

He blinks again, more rapidly than before, setting free a tear or two, and his brain gets caught in an endless loop of _WhatWhatWhatWhat_ while his face creases into a shocked smile and then, a flustered laugh.

“I don’t have much luck when it comes to getting close to people,” she says, and he knows there’s a story behind the way her throat jumps and spasms around a gulp of air and how she forces her mouth into a hard line, but he doesn’t push her.

He apologises (again) and suddenly, letting the truth roll off his tongue is so easy. Same goes for standing up on his toes and kissing her (first like an idiot and then like a somewhat confident idiot with his hand on her upper arm and his stomach full of sparklers). She trails her thumb along his cheekbone and by the time they break apart, he’s vibrating with a sense of joy that turns his spine and legs into jello.

(All too soon, she needs to get back to the class and he can’t really stop himself from grinning from ear to ear when he meets up with Happy or when he calls May to tell her that he’s alright, and he can’t stop the blush that creeps up his neck the next day at the airport when MJ sidles up to him, punches his shoulder, and then drags him into a Virgin store where she buys a KitKat bar for him and three thick paperbacks for herself.

He has a low-key panic attack during boarding because who the hell knows if the new ID EDITH created for him last night is actually going to work, and he nearly trips over his feet when MJ informs him – quite unenthused – that she switched seats with Yasmin and Zoha so that they can sit next to each other.)

“Sweaty Guy sent me a text this morning,” she says once they’re settled between an Indian business guy and an elderly lady with a pink travel pillow.

“W-What?!” he squeals, slightly terrified by what Happy could have told her; he clears his throat and lowers his voice, “Why?”

“He said you didn’t sleep last night because, and I quote, you kept skipping and dancing around like a lovesick Disney princess.”

_What. The. Fuck._

“I – _Jesus_ – I didn’t do any of that, I swear!”

“Doesn’t matter. I told him to leave you alone and to improve his grammar. It’s like he’s never heard of punctuation rules. I also told him that the 50s are over and that Disney princesses are actually kinda cool these days,” she bumps her knee against his, “Anyway, he apologised.”

His blush returns with a vengeance and he gapes at her, speechless bafflement clashing with plain nonchalance, and then he snorts. Of course, she wouldn’t shrink back from reading Happy the riot act. She’d do the same with Tony if he was still here, and something about that thought causes Peter to slant his head with a grin.

“You – um – you wanna watch a movie together?”

(He doesn’t protest when she chooses a black-and-white animated film about a girl who grows up in Tehran during the Iranian Revolution and gets into a lot of trouble because she’s a proud fan of Bruce Lee and Iron Maiden. It’s a great movie, dithering somewhere between hilarious and thoroughly depressing, so it’s right up MJ’s alley. The only problem is that Peter dropped French after his freshman year, and he tends to get tired when he has to read subtitles.

Their dinner tastes like fancy cardboard and by the time he’s finished his pudding, his eyes are at halfmast and he’s ready to conk out for the rest of the flight. He doesn’t want to conk out on MJ, though, which leads him to squirm around and talk his head off until she sighs and throws him a pointed glare.)

“You can sleep, you know,” she says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, but – ”

“You saved the world yesterday, so maybe you _should_ sleep. Or try to, at least.”

The tenderness in her tone nearly does him in, but he wants to talk to her without Brad or Mr Fury or some bad guy getting in the way. He wants to listen to her rant about sexist literature and sneak glances at the broken charm around her neck. He wants to make good use of the hours they have left and study her because one day, he wants to know her – really know her – better than anybody else.

(And yes, that’s a pretty huge commitment for a dumb teenager who’s never had a real girlfriend before, but he can’t help but think that his feelings for MJ are pretty huge, too … and that has to mean something, right?)

“I’m not tired.”

“Sure, Jan.”

“I’m not!” he snaps his mouth shut when a yawn threatens to expose him, “I - uh - I didn’t get to hang out with you much during the trip,” he licks his lips, wrings his hands in his lap, “I guess I’m trying to make up for lost time.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment and he starts to panic because fuck, what if he said too much? What if he already blew it with this new sappy confession? _God._ They became kind of a thing less than 24 hours ago and he made it awkward in record time. He made it sound like he’s needy – and objectively, it’s the truth. Deep down, he’s needy as fuck (two dead father figures and occasional bouts of social anxiety do that to you) but it’s too soon, so he's desperate to take it back.

“Sorry, that came out wrong, I just – ”

“Peter.”

He stares at her, half in awe and half in horror, as she reaches up to wipe a stray curl from his forehead. The rise of her pulse is evident in her fingertips and he leans in a bit, simply because his instincts tell him so and because he’s tired of playing it cool. He was never good at it anyway. Not with Liz, certainly not with MJ.

(He’s a terrible liar and a ball of nervous energy – always has been, always will be – and he’s never on time. He’s constantly stressed out about stuff that matters and stuff that absolutely doesn’t. He’s awkward (duh)… and yet she kissed him on the bridge.)

“You deserve a break,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and he’s just too stupid or stubborn to accept it, “We can hang out and make up for lost time or whatever when we’re back in New York.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she pulls her hand back and he’s super fucking fucked because he’s already missing her touch, “I also want to know what it’s like to kiss you when you’re not banged up or sleep-deprived, so we’re probably gonna hang out a lot.”

With that, she bends down to rummage through her backpack. She tries her best to hide it behind her hair, but it’s too late. He can see the twitch of her lips and finally, the remaining knots in his stomach unfurl completely. She comes up with _Kindred_ by Octavia E. Butler, and there’s a happy twinkle that sets her eyes aglow because she loves to read, and he realises, with a fierce thud of his heart, that he doesn’t like her anymore.

She opens the book and shifts in her seat until she’s close enough for him to rest his head on her shoulder. Her hair tickles his nose. He couldn’t care less.

“I wanna take you out on a date when we’re back”, he mumbles, his speech slurred with sleepiness and his eyes closed as he listens to her flip the first page, “Like, I wanna go to a fancy restaurant and pull out your chair for you. I wanna pay for your dinner, walk you home, and kiss you goodnight at your doorstep.”

Her laugh is a sweet rumble.

“So, you want us to do the gross clichéd first-date kind of stuff?”

He smiles. He doesn’t like her anymore.

“Maybe I’m gonna kiss you on a roof instead.”

“Okay.”

She moulds her cheek against the crown of his head and he doesn’t like her anymore. He’s in love with her and the words will tumble out of his mouth way too soon because he can’t keep a secret and he’s awkward and sappy and needy like that.

(But that’s okay.)

**Author's Note:**

> only one more one-shot to go and we're done. i'm currently in uni-mode, so the final installment might take me a little longer than usual. (apologies in advance.)
> 
> here's my [tumblr](https://blueprintofyourpast.tumblr.com).
> 
> also: the animated movie mentioned in this one-shot is called _persepolis_. it's criminally underrated and based on marjane satrapi's graphic novel of the same name.


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